


K2,P3

by Ellie226



Series: Mark/El [23]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Play, Daddy Kink, F/M, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie226/pseuds/Ellie226
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not always a trigger, and El doesn't always have to give in to the impulse</p>
            </blockquote>





	K2,P3

**Author's Note:**

> K2, P3, are knitting directions (two knit stitches, two purl stitches). Knitting is often considered good occupational therapy for people struggling with the impulse to self injure.

“El? Baby?”

I could hear Daddy coming through the door. Putting my head down, I focused harder. Knit two, purl three. Knit two, purl three. It was a simple pattern; any moron could do it. Knit two, purl three.

“Princess? Where are you?”

I knew I should answer him, but I couldn’t open my mouth. If I opened my mouth, I didn’t know what I would say. Or scream. Knit three, purl two. That was wrong. Unravelling the stitches, I tried to put them back together.

He was in the bedroom now. After checking the bath, he started to leave. I guess he heard the knitting needles because he stopped and slowly backtracked. Pulling the door of the closet open, he squatted down to look at me. “Whatcha doin’ pumpkin?”

I held up my knitting mutely, then brought it back down so I could work.

“Why don’t you come out,” he suggested, his voice taking on that tone. The tone he only used when he remembered that he’d married a crazy lady.

I shook my head, not bothering to speak. I needed to focus. 

Daddy didn’t remind me to talk, simply standing up and walking away. That was weird. Although, Dr. Finnegan had talked with Daddy at length about the not talking thing. He didn’t make me anymore when I was having a really bad day, as long as I was doing something productive.

The knitting helped. I could focus on that instead of whatever I was panicking about. It didn’t fix the problem, but it kept my hands busy so I couldn’t cut myself. I’d taught myself off youtube one night, a couple of week after we got home from Disney World. Daddy had been working late. In the six months since the wedding, my projects had multiplied like tribbles. I was having a hard time adjusting.

I looked up in surprise when I saw his bare feet. “Scoot,” he instructed me, getting onto his knees and crawling into the closet next to me. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, he began paging through a magazine.

I had stopped knitting, watching him. This was new. Normally, he’d settle into the chair nearest whatever nook I’d secreted myself away in. 

He nodded at the partially finished throw in my hands. “Go on. That’ll look nice in the playroom when it’s finished.”

Not bothering to respond, I went back to my project. Knit two, purl three. After a few rows, I leaned against Daddy. He always smelled like clean laundry and oranges. I wasn’t sure how. It was relaxing.

After two more rows, I was ready. 

“Some days, I just feel...broken.” I was surprised by how matter of fact I managed to make that sound. Especially given my typical insistence that I wasn’t broken.

I could feel him nodding. When he didn’t say anything, I continued with, “And it’s not fair to you.”

Not the first time we’d had this conversation. He hated it. 

“What do you always tell me? That you’re the best kind of fucked up?”

I smiled. Sure, I’d stolen it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t an awesome way of looking at it. Some days.

“So, why are you asking for a divorce this time?” he asked.

“Dunno.”

“Just one of those days?” After all this time, he finally understood that there wasn’t always an obvious trigger. That there were just days that the idea of raking my nails across my skin was so tempting that I could barely breathe.

I nodded, and he freed the arm closest to me so he could wrap it around my shoulder. Hugging me to his side, he rubbed my arm for a moment, then went back to reading his magazine.

Lapsing into a comfortable silence, I considered the most recent stitches. Ripping a few out, I redid them so they were more uniform. I’d just focus on this until I didn’t feel like carving up my arms.


End file.
